


le terrible dragon

by pyladic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Shotgun Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 18:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: Underestimating le terrible dragon is a mistake many have made, and immediately regretted.





	le terrible dragon

After everything is over, after the elopement fails, and Anatole is sent away to god-knows-where, and and Natasha is ruined, and Dolokhov is called back to his squadron, he goes to visit his mother. Who knows how long it will be before he sees her again, if he sees her at all? The war is hard and dangerous, and he's got no reason to think his unnatural good luck will hold. This might be the last chance he has to see her. 

If she doesn't already know about the failed elopement, he won't tell her. The shame of it would kill her as surely as if he'd put the gun to her head himself. His mother, beyond all reason, still thinks he's a good man, a good son. And for her, he tries to be. He won't let that illusion be shattered, not if he can help it. He loves his mother more than his own life. If she lost faith in him, he's not sure what he would do.

Galina opens the door for him, her thin, pale face lit up from within with happiness. That's odd. She's usually such a sullen girl. But she flings her arms around him and squeezes tight, and Dolokhov lets it go. He's only got so much more time to spend here. He won't waste it with suspicions.

"Where's Mama?" he asks, squeezing her hand. "You're not here alone, are you?"

"No," she says, and pulls him towards the sitting room. "We have company, did you know? A grand society lady. She came to see Mama." Galina pushes the door open with a wide smile. "See?"

Her delight is infectious, and he doesn't stop to think about what kind of society woman would come to visit his poor mother and sister. Dolokhov grins back at her and turns to see who's here. 

His mother is pouring the woman a cup of tea, her tatty silhouette blocking all but tiny glimpses of her. The first thing Dolokhov sees is fading red hair and a scarlet shawl, pale hands folded neatly in her lap. Then she turns, pale eyes narrowing to look at him. Marya Dmitrievna. Here. In his mother's house.

On instinct, Dolokhov reaches for his pistol, but it isn't there, because his mother won't have it in the house, and the first thing he can think is that Marya Dmitrievna knows, that she's here to kill them all, to take revenge on his mother and sister for what he's done. He swallows hard. Stupid. That's stupid. She wouldn't come here personally to kill two women who had nothing to do with the elopement. She has a reputation to think of. Marya Dmitrievna could destroy them all without lifting a finger, but she wouldn't. She's too polite for that. It's not a question of her ability.

He swallows hard, and before he can do a thing to get her out of his house, she's on her feet and ushering him over to the opposite chair, her fingers digging into his arm. It's all he can do not to grimace. Composure. Showing weakness will get him nowhere.

She sends his mother and sister away on some pretext, and all he can think is that it's not them she's after, that she's going to tear him apart right here, that his family will come back in and find him in a bruised and bloodied heap on the carpet. 

Marya pours out another cup of tea and hands it to him, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at it like it's a foreign object. Finally, he takes a sip from it and folds his arms across his chest, wishing he had something, anything with which to defend himself, or failing that, a feasible escape route. What's she here for?

He can't think of a thing to say. How is he supposed to address the godmother of the girl his sometimes best friend, sometimes lover was going to elope with?

"I know you were there, Fyodor," she says, conversational. He starts upright, eyes widening like a rabbit who's just scented a wolf. It's not a sensation he's altogether familiar with. It's uncomfortable. Like stepping into the wrong skin. 

His grip tightens on the teacup. "I beg your pardon?" Denial is his first, best course. She didn't see him, he's sure. Maybe he can get her to back down.

Her posture stiffens, and she takes a measured sip from her cup. She's not looking at him, at least. Dolokhov is certain that, faced with her steely gaze, he'd quail in a moment. "I know you were with Kuragin that night. Did you think I wouldn't suspect?"

Dolokhov says nothing. Denial is getting him nowhere, apparently.

Marya continues. "I know Kuragin better than you think. Did you forget his father and I were friends? I know he doesn't have the wits to pull off a scheme like that." She looks at him for the first time, and he fights the urge to bolt for the door. "The whole of it reeked of you."

Against his will, his lips quirk upwards. "Thank you?"

She doesn't look amused. "And then I came here, and discovered what a lovely family you have. They really are sweet. And I thought to myself, you can't have told them about this."

Dolokhov goes still, heart racing in his chest, and she leans over across the table to look him in the eye. "You know, they do seem like lovely people. Wouldn't it be terrible if their reputations suffered because of something you did?" She clicks her tongue, shaking her head sadly. "I'm afraid that for lone women, reputation is everything."

He's not unaware of the thin, barely there veil to the threat she's making. It's the same kind of thing he would do, if given the chance. Dolokhov might be a bad man, but he loves his family more than anything in his life. He'd kill for them. He'd die for them. Whatever Marya Dmitrievna wants from him is a price he's more than willing to pay. 

He swallows hard. "What is it that you want?" It feels like admitting defeat, and in that moment, he feels a spark of hatred, all consuming and fiery, in the pit of his stomach. 

Marya gives him a calculating stare, and then a smile. She folds her hands in her lap, setting the teacup aside. For the first time, Dolokhov sees the formidable opponent that she really is. Anatole, wherever he is, is lucky to have gotten away unscathed.

"My goddaughter's engagement to Prince Bolkonsky has been broken off." She gives him a look, and he shrinks back against his seat reflexively. "But she has a cousin. Sofia Rostova. I believe the two of you are acquainted?" It's a pointed hit, and he fights the urge to flinch. Sonya. Of course he knows Sonya. There had been a time when she'd been all he'd wanted. But that was long ago, and she wouldn't have him.

"She's engaged, is she not? To Nikolai?" Dolokhov allows himself a tiny, mirthless grin. Nikolai Rostov, the last, desperate hope of the family's lost honor and money - he'd had a hand in at least part of their ruin himself. Nikolai Rostov is going to have to marry up. He won't be allowed to marry, not to the Rostov's poor country mouse cousin.

Marya's lips tighten. "Sonya will do as she's told. She knows her place. You will renew your offer of marriage to her, and this time, she will accept." 

It's a clever stroke, he has to admit. To distract from Natasha's impending social ruin, why not marry off the poor cousin who'd otherwise have been married to her longing for a man who would never have her? He and Sonya will be the sacrificial pawns, and everything will go on as it was. Natasha will have other chances, and Nikolai will be married to some heiress, someone who can save the family name, and they won't be happy, none of them.

Marriage to Sonya, though. Dolokhov's expression tightens as he considers the prospect. As much as he'd like to hide it, there's a part of him that still longs for her. Not love. It isn't love. He's long since given up on the idea that it's something he's capable of. More like an understanding. But she'll resent him, and hate him for taking her away from Nikolai, and never realize that even without him, that was never going to happen. 

Anatole, who started all this, isn't here. Someone has to pay the piper; someone has to see it through to the bitter end.

Dolokhov accepts. What else can he do?

Marya stands, skirts swirling around her, her back ramrod straight. She's won and she knows it. "I'll go and tell your family the happy news." As she turns to leave, he sees a glint of satisfaction in her eyes; Marya Dmitrievna, le terrible dragon, the chessmaster, the granddam of Moscow.

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Creative Squad challenge on the amino! I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but that's okay!


End file.
